


Call Me John Laurens

by ImmaDoAThing



Series: Call Me John Laurens [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Child Abuse, Foster Care, Henry Laurens is a dickface, M/M, Multi, Physical Abuse, Trans Character, Trans John Laurens, but i gotta start by dragging the characters through hell, endgame of big happy family, part one of Call Me John Laurens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 08:34:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8790853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImmaDoAThing/pseuds/ImmaDoAThing
Summary: It shouldn't have been anything new to him, but his father's cruelty rose to new heights when he came home to find his entire world was set to flames. What followed was a study in how much a young boy could take before running away. The answer was just that much. But he figured that with less than a year to graduation, living on the streets would be preferable to the homophobic, transphobic world he was in right now...AND THE WINNER IS, CALL ME JOHN LAURENS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AND THE WINNER IS, CALL ME JOHN LAURENS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

His entire world was on fire.

Not figuratively, either. He had returned from school and his father had been missing. Not so odd, usually if he wasn’t at home drinking and cussing at the television, Henry Laurens was out at a bar drinking and cussing at the television. A++ parenting, he thought to himself as he hiked up the strap of the ratty camouflage backpack and trudged up the stairs for the relative solitude of his bedroom. If he could hole himself up in his bedroom before his father returned from wherever the man was giving himself alcohol poisoning today, most of the time he could be spared the abuse that passed for parenting.

Not today, apparently. Today, he had turned the corner into his bedroom to find every single worldly possession he had was gone from his room. His closet was empty, the dresser pulled apart with drawers hanging from broken tracks, the posters on his walls just ripped corners still taped to the drywall, the Lego reproduction of Hogwarts that had sat on top of the dresser, all gone… Hell, even the blanket and pillowcases from his bed had disappeared.

“What the fuck?” He stared around the room in disbelief for a few moments, and then he heard the cussing from the back yard. This couldn’t be good, and it wouldn’t end well… He didn’t look out the window, too afraid of what he was going to see in the backyard and he wanted to postpone whatever it was that was going to happen.

What greeted him out the back door was his father standing over a burning pit in the backyard, shoveling his things onto the flames. Henry Laurens was cursing and muttering to himself and he obviously believed he was being quiet, but was actually failing miserably. He belched, wobbling far too close to the fire to not be burned and dropped another fist full of t-shirts onto the fire. “No girl of mine’s gonna be, fuckin’, pretending to be a boy. Put a stop to this righ’ now. Thass waht I’ll do. ‘sa disgrace, women thinking they can do what men do.”

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, hating the way his already high voice rose an octave as he spoke. He gripped the straps of his backpack tightly. Partly to keep himself from running and taking a swing at his father, that never ended well for him. Partly, to secure the most precious items he owned, things he carried with him at all times because he didn’t want his father to see them. He wouldn’t put it past his father to grab the bag off of his back and throw it onto the blaze as well. Wouldn’t put it past him to not make sure the bag was separated from his child before flinging it into the flames.

Henry Laurens turned, this time stepping into the fire and cussing when his pant leg caught on fire. He took a minute to put out his pants. He then commanded, “Ah-ha! You’re finally back from whatev- the fuck you do. Make me dinner, girl.”

“I’m not-” he began and was cut off.

“You were born a girl, that’s the way God made you.” Henry was beginning to wobble on his feet, once again dangerously close to the fire pit. “I’ll be damned if you keep this masqueradein’ as a man. Now, Jacqueline Laurens, get in that kitchen and make me dinner like a real woman!”

He felt white-hot fury race through his veins. Normally, he was able to put up with his father calling him a girl, making him make dinner because it was the ‘woman’s duty,’ he even took the physical abuse because he always had his room to retreat to. He felt another stab of sorrow at the loss of his things at the thought. His room was the one place on Earth where he could be himself at least for a tiny bit. He rationalized being forced to make dinner as a skill he would need when he graduated high school. The abuse was toughening him up for the way trans people were treated in the real world. But taking away his solace, the one place where he had felt safe, he couldn’t rationalize that anymore.

Tears pricked the back of his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. They would only be used for ammunition against his gender identity.

He felt his hands ball into fists, his father noticed.

“What? You gonna throw a punch at me, girl?” Henry went to a cooler and cracked open another beer. He turned to face him, “Go on. I’d like to see you try, Jacqueline.”

As always the name was a threat. Henry used it especially when he wanted to put him down, remind him of his place in the world. The syllables were a knife on his skin. At school, what friends he had called him ‘Jack,’ the teachers all called him ‘Jackie.’ Both were neutral enough that he could ignore the prick of pain, because neither of those names felt right… Too close to the weapon his father used against him every night.

But it was his name, what could he do? Just another thing about his lot in life that he had to deal with. At least there was only one more semester of high school to finish. Then he didn’t care how hard it would be, he would move out, get a job, and start hormone therapy. Maybe finally start to feel at home in his own skin. Charleston wasn’t so far away that he couldn’t hitchhike there; maybe there was even a small LGBT community that would welcome him and help him adjust? It was this hope that kept him going thought the worst of the teasing and bullying at school, the abuse at home.

He took a controlled step forward. He had to do something. Make some attempt to save what little was left. A few t-shirts and pants had yet to find their way onto the fire. He had to have clothes for school tomorrow. All he was thinking about doing was saving his clothes. But Henry saw the movement, interpreted it as an invitation to fight because the next thing he knew, he was flying over the pile of clothes courtesy of a kick to the hip. He landed, stones in the yard cutting into his palms. He didn’t have time to move before he was kicked again, this time in the stomach. He rolled with the momentum, years of abuse giving him the muscle memory to get himself out of the way of his father’s ire. The roll ended with him just out of reach of Henry’s third kick. He was on his hands and knees and he pushed himself upright. His breath wheezed out of him, the kick to the stomach had winded him. He had to stay out of Henry’s reach long enough to get his breath back or it would be over before it began.

He was no match for the stocky, irate man. He had always been just above the average, height-wise. He took pride in that a little. At least that part of him was closer to the masculine. The rest of his body fell quite past the mark. He was gangly, lanky; despite working out as much as possible, a combination of bad diet and genetics precluded him from building the muscles he desperately wanted. His hands had always seemed too long and thin, his arms and legs skinny and weak, his face… overall he felt like he just looked weak.

When he turned to face his father, he discovered that the man was already bearing down on him, fist cocked. He barely dodged the right-handed swing, didn’t notice the left fist coming from the other side. It connected with his ribs and he felt a crunch of bones as pain radiated out from the impact. He realized dully that his father was pushing him back into a corner of the yard between the shed and the fence, if he got pushed into there he may never see the light again. A few more hits to the sides and one to the head made the decision for him. He had one shot: he had to take it. He cocked his leg back and landed a solid kick to Henry Laurens’ family jewels.

His father went down like a sack of potatoes, clutching his crotch and wheezing. He gained enough breath to spew profanities at him as he gathered what was left of his clothes. He shoved them into his backpack and with an arm wrapped around his broken ribs, he fled the house as fast as possible. Even if he had to live on the streets, he vowed never to return to his own personal hell reigned over by Henry Laurens.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANNNDDDDDD THE WINNER IS: Call Me John Laurens!!!!!!!
> 
> If you wanted Red Heat, don't worry I have a bunch of chapters already written for that story too!! but of the next month I will only be working on CMJL. After this month, though i will be updating each story in a round robin setup, starting with Red Heat, for everyone who voted for Theo and Maria (And Eliza too, she just hasn't shown up in the story yet.)
> 
> Y’all need to thank CelticMuse34 for listening to my ramblings about the chapters I'm planning; bc without her I would literally would have stopped writing long ago. I’ll randomly message her with ‘I’m thinking of putting XYZ in the story, but I'm not sure’ or ‘I don’t know if anyone actually likes my stories’ and she’s all ‘DO IT!!!!’ or ‘bitch please, I like your stories and that’s all that matters. Keep writing!’ she’s kind of a psudo-beta for me in that she supports me and lets me bounce ideas off of her and she gets the chapters before I post them to look over and give me a confidence boost about posting them. 
> 
> So in all of the research I have been doing for this story I have learned one huge thing that John is doing wrong in this chapter:
> 
> PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DO NOT BIND WITH ACE BANDAGES!!!
> 
> They aren’t safe. So other than that, have more angst.

He woke up in the hospital. Vague memories of the night before bubbled up in his mind. Running out of the house. Stumbling over a tree root on his way to somewhere safe and falling, having to lie there for too long before the pain subsided enough to get back up. Once the endorphins of the fight had left his system, he discovered that it was even more difficult to breathe than normal. Dodging cars to run across a crowded intersection. Finally making it the 10 miles between his house and his friend Marty’s.

Marty’s mother had opened the door when he rang the bell, he knew it was too late but he had nowhere else to go. She had gasped at the sight of him and pulled him into the house. “Jackie, what happened?”

He was too tired to respond, in too much pain. But when Marty, Martha Manning, his only real friend, came down the steps wondering what the commotion was, he let it all go. He sank to the floor. He let his bag with the few t-shirts and pants and his small box of precious belongings, all that he had left in the world, drop next to him. He finally cried when she rushed to him, hugging him and looking at her mother for assistance. She wrapped her arms around his torso and he hissed at the pain, more tears spilling.

“Are you hurt, Jack?” Marty asked, pulling back and looking at his swollen face with a grimace, light fingers ghosting over his swollen left eye. “I mean other than bruises and scrapes?”

“I think my ribs are broken…” he whispered, the sobbing had sent bolts of pain stabbing into his chest. He couldn’t breathe.

“We’re going to take you to the hospital, ok?” Marty’s mother had grabbed the keys and some coats.

He was too tired to resist, too much in pain to think clearly. He had allowed himself to be guided to the Manning’s SUV. He curled up next to Marty on the back seat and almost was able to doze off. But with every bump of the road, his chest gave another protest. He didn’t realize that tears were still falling until Marty reached up to wipe them away with a tissue, the white square coming away from his face covered in blood and dirt.

“You don’t have to tell exactly what happened, Jackie, but whatever you can tell us will help your case.” Mrs. Manning was saying from the front seat. He had forgotten that she was a social worker. She was probably already working on the emancipation order in her head, or running over the options of foster care in the area.

“My father beat me.” He said, the ‘again’ as left unspoken, but the two women had seen him bruised before. He just usually cleaned up before coming over to hang out with Marty. The ten-mile run would normally clear his head. “He-“

He tried to describe the scene he had returned home to that night, but that betrayal had been too much for him to process. His father beat him all the time; it was almost normal for him. Shure he knew that other parents didn’t get piss drunk and hit their children, but that was his normal. What wasn’t normal was the invasion and decimation of his sanctuary.

They were stopped at a red light and Mrs. Manning turned around in her seat, face and voice serious. She asked, “Did he touch you? Do any-“

“Oh god no!” he yelled catching Mrs. Manning’s drift. There were some things that were below even Henry Laurens’ questionable standards.

The light turned green and cars behind them honked, but Mrs. Manning just searched his face. She nodded, finding what she was looking for before turning around and starting the car’s forward motion.

The hospital had been a blur, the nurses had bundled him off to an exam room, tisked when they lifted his shirt to reveal the dirty ACE Bandage that he used as a binder. When they realized that he had broken ribs one of the nurses began to cut the bandage off of him while another stood in front of him and yelled at him for leaving the bandage on with broken ribs. Didn’t he know that he could have pushed the rib into his lungs and punctured them? He just sat on the table numbly and accepted the hospital gown. They took him in for x-rays and did blood tests and other unnecessary things.

After 3 am, they finally moved into a room. He didn’t expect Mrs. Manning to still be at the hospital, but there she was, another woman at her side. Mrs. Manning was still in her Pajamas, she hadn’t changed before the three of them left the house. The other woman was in a fancy pantsuit, her hair tightly pulled back giving her a severe look. But she smiled at him as he sat on the hospital bed. “Are you in any pain, Jacqueline?”

Mrs. Manning put a hand on the other woman’s arm. “He prefers Jack or Jackie.”

The other woman’s face flashed with confusion before comprehension dawned. “Well Jack, would you like to tell me what happened today?”

He stayed silent for too long because she tried again. She approached the bed and said, not unkindly, “If you can tell me anything about how you got hurt, I can try and make sure you are never in that position again.”

“You won’t send me back to my father?” He asked suddenly speaking for the first time in hours.

“Did your father do this to you? Does he hit you?” The woman responded. He was only able to nod, tears welling up again. It had been too long since he had last slept, too much had happened. He just wanted to go to sleep. “I know this is hard, but if we can get the story straight, while its still fresh in your mind, I may be able to get a judge to issue an emancipation order within a few days.”

“I’d still need to prove that I can live by myself before that.” He pointed out. It wasn’t the first time that he had thought about emancipation. But who would give a job or rent an apartment to a 17 year-old trans kind in South Carolina?

“But we could at least get you into foster care. Away from your father and safe for the rest of the school year.” The woman pointed out. Mrs. Manning was nodding behind him. “It’ll be easier if we knew the story of tonight.”

He rubbed his hands over his face, grimacing and gasping because he had forgotten about the black eye. His ribs were where the most of his pain was coming from, every time he breathed, he was stabbed with pain. He was lucky that his nose hadn’t broken during the fight as well. He gingerly laid himself back against the pillows, sighing to finally be laying back. He found himself spilling the tale of that night. He made too many pauses, reliving the betrayal, but every time he stopped they just waited for him to continue. By the time he was finished, he was able to detach himself from the emotions, push them back like he had done all his life it seemed like. Probably not healthy, he thought. “He burned everything. I came home from school and found my room completely empty. He was in the back yard, three sheets to the wind. Musta not gone to work cuz he’s usually not able to get that drunk in the time he has after. He had dug a pit in the ground and put all my things into it and set it on fire. I just wanted to grab some clothes so I could go to school tomorrow, today I guess. But he reached out and kicked me across the yard, kept kicking me and hitting me, I got him in the ‘nads. Was able to grab some stuff that hadn’t made it onto the fire and ran.”

For some reason, he couldn’t tell these women the reason his father had burned his things and attacked him. Was it because some part of him still wanted to protect his father? That couldn’t be it, what harm would come from the man attacking his child because he was transphobic? Afraid that they would begin to treat him the same way if he openly said he was trans? But Mrs. Manning already knew, didn’t really understand, but was willing to let him be himself. This other woman could probably see his breasts poking out underneath the hospital gown, had already addressed him as a girl. He couldn’t make eye contact with anyone in the room; he stared at his fingers, plucking at the ugly blanket across his lap. He had hunched his shoulders and would have crossed his arms to cover his chest, but the pain from his ribs kept his arms at his sides.

“Why don’t you get some rest, honey?” Mrs. Manning pulled the blanket up a little bit higher, tucking him in. She smiled comfortingly, “Mrs. Patterson will be in tomorrow to discuss some of your options, and I know Marty isn’t going to let me alone until she’s seen that your are ok.”

The other woman, Mrs. Patterson, nodded her head. She held the door for Mrs. Manning and shut off the lights before closing the door.

***

Outside in the hall Mrs. Manning squeezed her friend’s arm. “Thank you for coming on such short notice, Kelly. I couldn’t take Jack’s case, I'm too close to him.”

“You didn’t tell me that Jacqueline is-“ the other woman replied, shifting nervously.

“Is that going to be a problem for you?” she asked.

“It’s just going to make it more difficult to place… him.” She woman grimaced, “There aren’t many willing to take in LGBT youth especially in South Carolina.”

“We may need to send him to a specialty home out of state…” Mrs. Manning said. “Might be better, that way his father can’t find him easily.”

“You really think Henry would try to come after him again? He may just be thankful that the kid is out of his house.”

Martha Manning frowned at the other social worker. She asked her friend sharply, “Do I need to find someone else to take Jack’s case?”

“No, I’ll be professional, I just don’t think the father would want that kid back under any circumstances. I’d be surprised if the two ever saw each other again.”

They walked down the hall.

***

Inside the hospital room, he thought bitterly about his new social worker. The woman wouldn’t do right by him, he was sure about it. He frowned at the ceiling. _‘Under any circumstances,’ my ass. I'm never going back whether he wants me or not._

 _I'm going to have to be careful wherever she has me go… They won’t care about me. Might even treat me the same as Henry…_ He wanted to roll onto his side and cry himself to sleep, but his ribs kept him from being able to lie on his side. All he could do was lie on his back and stare at the smooth white ceiling in hours that may have actually been minutes he was asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wahhhhhh poor John!!!! I think the next chapter is going to be the end of this arc. Then I can start getting into the healing and happy stuff! I'm really ready for that between this and FLYROOT, guys. Things are intense.
> 
> I just realized that the bulk of this chapter was the Christmas Bonus, so I'm actually going to post chapter three now too. 
> 
> This update supported by CelticMuse34.  
> Talk to me on tumblr @immadoathing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm a lying liar, four chapters... Sort of short chapter, though. Needed some things to play out for later in the story.
> 
> If you haven’t figured out yet, I write in advance so I can stick to the schedule in case I get writer’s block. I really don’t want to leave anybody hanging with the worst cliffhanger just because I wrote myself into a corner… It’s all for you guys, I swear.
> 
> I would like to point out that so many people reacted like the old lady in this chapter when I came out. I'm talking old people. Like really old. I was surprised. The most homophobic people I’ve had to deal with have been family and a few people from my college. Not too many, but where it counts to fuck you up…

For the first time in a long while, he looked at himself fully in the mirror. He saw the giant red and purple bruises curling around his rib cage, the cuts and bruises up his arms, and the black eye, split lip and cut up in his hairline that had needed stitches. He gingerly poked at one of the stitches. They had had to shave around it to keep it clean and close it, but wasn’t too much of a loss because he kept his brown hair as short as possible so that he was closer to passing as male. Usually he cut it in a short style that was about one to two inches at the top and shorter at the sides and back. Maybe he could get away with a buzz cut and just say that he wanted it to grow in evenly?

He kind of liked that idea. He made a pleased noise and made a face that wasn't quite a smile, but it was better than the frown that was usually in place. It pulled at the split on the lower lip but he could see something in his own expression that he hadn’t seen in a long time. Hope. Just barely peeking out from behind his green eyes, it was there.

Yesterday, a judge had granted him a restraining order against his father. He couldn’t come within 500 feet of him. It was almost like he was truly free.

“Hey! Get out of the bathroom! There are other girls that need to use it too!!”

The voice was accompanied by banging on the door and a chorus of ‘Yah’s. He turned to the door and yelled, “I’m not a girl, Margery!” but he hurried to put his shirt on and collect what little things he had. It all went into the backpack; it had survived the trip from Henry’s house, to the hospital and all the way to the South Carolina Home for Wayward Girls. Where his Social Worker had dumped him the day he was released from the hospital, he had been there for a week.

“I know it’s not ideal, but it’s the best I can do while I'm trying to find space in a LGBT Foster home.” Mrs. Patterson had said as she left him, alone.

It had been the week from hell. Which was surprisingly just as bad as Henry’s. Everyone in the house refused to recognize that he was a boy and exclusively called him ‘Jacqueline’ not even Jackie. The first night, the girls, a conglomeration of some of the most ill behaved young women, had cornered him and given him the split lip.

“Ok, girlie-boy, I rule this house and you do what I say. And just to make sure that you follow my lead…” Margery had hissed in his ear as the other girls held him down. She had then punched him a couple times in the ribs making him see stars and then once in the mouth leaving the spit lip. “And we’ll all get along just swell.”

The woman who ran the house had asked about the lip the next day, but Margery had said that he came in with it.

He was having a meeting that day with Mrs. Patterson to discuss his placement options. He wanted to look ok, just in case she was willing to take him to another foster home that night. He still wanted to make a good impression. Not very likely with the state of his face, but he could make an effort in his clothes at least. He was wearing his least ripped pair of the three jeans he had left and a green t-shirt with a turtle on the front that had been a birthday present from Marty last year.

He left the bathroom to the sneers and jeers of the rest of the house’s residents. Margery stood in front of him, blocking his path, with her hands on her hips, “Damn, if you’re really a boy, shouldn’t you take less time in the bathroom?”

“If you’re really a girl, shouldn’t you be sweet and pretty?” He shot back ducking around her and dodging her punch, ignoring the stab from his ribs. She could pack a punch, but no one would compare with Henry.

“Watch your back, Jacqueline!” she called after him, sickly sweet. His response was to throw a bird over his shoulder, not even turning around to see the look on her ugly face as she scoffed and went to monopolize the bathroom and put on ten pounds of make up.

He went down to sit with the lady who ran the house, usually it meant helping the old lady with chores around the house. At least in her presence, the pack of she wolves would stay civil. It had transitioned into winter break while he was in the hospital, so he didn’t have homework to worry about and was able to sit and watch the news with her.

“What is this world coming to?” She asked sadly, shaking her head at the news story. He noticed it was another one about a local hate crime, this time a gay man had been beaten up as he returned home from work. He stiffened on the couch, ready for the lady to go into a diatribe about ‘those gays’ and how the bible said they were all going to hell. He steeled himself to smile and nod and politely as possible flee the room. “What makes idiots like that think they can beat on someone for who they love? Don’t get me wrong back in my day; we didn’t let them be out and proud as the kids are calling it. A bunch of racist, homophobic assholes, that’s what we were. But kids today know better. I'm disappointed, I used to be so proud of how far we’ve come, Jackie… Now I'm just glad that I only have so much time left on this planet. My heart breaks for you young boys and girls who have to grow up and live through this still.”

She turned the television to a game show, picked up a set of crochet needles and politely ignored the shocked expression on his face. It was the first positive interaction he had had with an adult in a long time. And the fact that it was with someone four times his age… about this subject?

Margery waltzing in ruined the moment and giving the woman a peck on the cheek, he was surprised half of her face didn’t smear off onto the other woman. Margery gave him a glare that promised retribution for the pretty comment.

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it!” Margery said sweet like a python. She bounded out of the room. John not really caring until he remembered Mrs. Patterson was coming this morning. He leapt out of the chair and bounded to the front door, but it was too late. Margery was there, crying her eyes out with crocodile tears, Mrs. Patterson’s arm around her shoulders. “I'm just so afraid for him, he cries every night, he’s so depressed, and I think I’ve seen him eyeing the kitchen knives! I think he might be contemplating suicide…”

Mrs. Patterson pulled the girl into her arms. Not an inch of Margery’s makeup had smudged in the tears, she had planned this in the bathroom this morning, or possibly earlier. Margery gave him a venomous look over Mrs. Patterson’s shoulder. Mrs. Patterson pulled away from Margery and pushed her toward the living room, “Thank you for telling me, Margery. Jack, would you join me in the dining room. We have a lot to discuss.”

“It’s not true. What she said, she’s lying.” He said the second they made it into the dining room and closed the door behind them. “You have to believe me, I'm not suicidal! She just doesn’t like me and is a crazy bitch.”

“Jack, language. You are still a minor. And I have to make a note of it in my files for you. There’s nothing you can do. Although it does take away quite a few options.” Mrs. Patterson pulled out a couple of files and placed them on the table. She shuffled through them and put over half of them back into her briefcase. “Our options are very limited. Not many people want to take in LGBT kids. If you wanted to stay in state,”

“Hell, no.” He interrupted her.

“Language. I was about to say you were out of luck. But there is a house with an open spot in upstate New York.” She pulled the top file out off of the stack. “They are willing to work with your particular set of difficulties. And they are ok with young people on suicide watch.”

“I'm not suicidal…”

“We are going to have to leave that to your therapist when you get there.” She responded.

He rolled his eyes and glared at her. Finally deciding to just let it go to get to a place where they wouldn’t call him ‘girl’ or ‘Jacqueline’ all the time. Mrs. Patterson continued talking and he ignored her. Choosing instead to hope against all hope that he could get to the place soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a few things: Margery is a twat-waffle. The old lady is sweet and John-who-isn’t-John-yet doesn’t have his signature long wavy hair. What??? Plus how is being tagged a suicide risk going to effect John down the road? To find out, we’ll have to (wait for it) wait for it. lol I'm an idiot.
> 
> This update supported by CelticMuse34.  
> Talk to me on tumblr @immadoathing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally finished this chapter and burst into tears. Messaged my Beta and was like ‘I’m bawling over the ending I just fucking wrote to the CMJL arc. It’s sooo sweet and good. It didn’t end how I originally planed for it to end, but its so much better.’
> 
> So this is how it ends. I really hope you all like it and want to see more. Since I promised a whole month of the winner of the contest and it’s only week two, I'm gonna be writing more whether you read or not, because I'm a girl of my word.
> 
> Some liberties taken with the Laurens family in this chapter. Just FYI.
> 
> French translations at the end of chapter.

He was a little dazed when he landed in a plane next to Mrs. Patterson the next day. He had hoped that the end of the girls home was near, but hadn’t thought that it would be so sudden. Mrs. Patterson lectured him the entire flight about how important it was to make a good impression and to keep his nose clean. Not many other options than this. And it was only going to be for a few months before he graduated high school and aged out of the system.

He ignored her in favor of doodling on a legal pad that she had leant him. He hadn’t drawn in ages and he could tell he was rusty as hell, but he powered through. He drew his favorite thing, the ocean. He had actually never seen it in real life, but the paintings and pictures he had seen on line and in books were mesmerizing. It looked calm and volatile at the same time; full of life and ready to bring destruction. He drew a whale swimming solitary in the deep water, inking in the negative space and making the background a dark black. The whale was stark against the background, it’s skin battered and battle worn but there was a small beam of light dancing across the water above it and the whale followed the beam, he imagined it was hoping the light was a beacon to a better place.

“That’s very good,” Mrs. Patterson interrupted the hazy feeling he got when he drew, the feeling of being beyond just himself and his body. He instantly moved to cover the drawing, hide it from criticism. “You could think about pursuing art in college.”

He laughed, none too bitterly. “I'm not going to college, even if I had a way to pay for it, I'm not education system compatible. And no one wants a half-assed drawing from some queer Latino kid.”

“There are many queer artists out there. You should Google them sometime. And don’t sell yourself short, college could be just what you have been waiting for. I know there a lot of scholarships out there for queer youth and other minorities. I’ll have your new social worker go over some of them with you.” He could tell that she was gearing up for a ‘don’t knock it till you try it’ ‘persevere through adversity’ pep talk. In the week and half since he met her, she’d given him no less than eight such talks. “I know your new foster father is a college professor, I'm sure he’d be more than happy to help you get back on track for college.”

Great a house full of people who would be determined to push something onto him that he didn’t want. Some things would never change.

“Just think about it.” Mrs. Patterson said.

 

***

 

The houses were huge. At first he was sure that Mrs. Patterson had made a wrong turn, but she just hummed to herself as the radio played some old song and continued driving.

He had a distinct feeling that he was on the wrong side of town for him. His type should be someplace with broken windows and big angry men intimidating from the front porch, a ‘beware of dog’ sign zip-tied to the chain link fence. Not here. Not where only the concrete driveways marred the sprawling, perfectly manicured lawns even in the snow. The only real differences between the houses were the color of the shutters that framed each window. With old red brick and white columns on the mansions. Was that the right word, mansions? It had to be mansions; he had never seen bigger houses. And as they continued down the street, they just got bigger.

He tried to not let his jaw gape open in awe. The house that they pulled up to had a gate, an actual gate that Mrs. Patterson had to buzz up to the house to open.

“ _Bonjour. Comment ça va?”_ a voice answered.

“Oh, I may have the wrong house…” Mrs. Patterson checked her file but before she could say anything a woman’s voice came over the speaker.

“No, no. You have the right house, dear. He just likes to confuse people. Gilbert, you shouldn’t assume that everyone understands French. At least ask if they do in English first please.” The woman’s admonishment sounded amused.

“Alex speaks French, and why can’t Americans learn more than English. I have learned more than French.” Came the contrary reply. It sounded like the person was walking away from the speaker though because their voice became distant.

“Come in! Come in!” The gate buzzed and began to slide to the right. Mrs. Patterson waited for the gate to fully open before guiding the rental down the driveway.

The house looked like any other on the street. Red brick, white columns, impeccable landscaping, white shutters around all the windows. There was a massive window above the front door through which he could see a chandelier. Intricate Christmas lights were strung around each window and across the eves, as well as too many other decorations to count. This place was too expensive to be a foster home. Way too expensive for him to be there. He felt like he needed to flee the zip code.

A man and a woman waited at the door. They both smiled and beckoned them into the house. There was snow on the ground, and a promise of it in the air, and they rushed into the warmth of the house.

The adults exchanged pleasantries. He stood in the foyer and tried not to stare at the huge staircase, the chandelier, and the massive doorways. This house made him feel insignificant.

“So, son.” The man held out a hand and smiled. “I’m George, this is my wife, Martha. Welcome to our home. What can we call you?”

“This is Jack.” Mrs. Patterson supplied when he didn’t respond.

The man must have noticed the grimace that he couldn’t control because he shook his head and said kindly, “The way I see it, it’s more than time for a new beginning for you, son. If you want to, this place, this school, this life can be a clean slate. Build on it however you want. That should start with your name, I believe. Think on it a bit while Martha and I have a talk with Mrs. Patterson. Hercules!”

His booming voice resonated through the house and made him jump. He had a fleeting image of the man leading soldiers into battle on a misty cold December morning with a rallying war cry. From the second floor came an almost equally deep voice. “Coming, sir.”

“We’ll leave you to Hercules for the grand tour.” Martha smiled warmly at him. “He’s the most level headed.”

“Don’t let the other hellions intimidate you, son.” George chuckled, “They are mostly bark.”

The three adults left him in the foyer in favor of a den or office off of the main hall of the house. He pulled on the straps of his backpack nervously, shoulders hunched against the anxiety he was experiencing. Who were these people to let him into their home? What about their other children? Didn’t they think he would be trouble with his bruised face and all the cuts…

“Yo! My man!” The voice of another teen so close made him jump a foot and he stumbled. He was so focused on his own self-doubt that he didn’t hear the other boy come down the stairs. The other boy reached out and grabbed him to keep him upright, unfortunately his hand smacked against the broken ribs on his left side in it’s journey to grab his arm. The contact made him hiss and wheeze a bit. “Woah, are you ok?”

“Broken ribs.” Was all he could get out.

“Shit, sorry.” The other boy had dark skin, short hair and deep kind eyes. He was shorter than him but at least twice as broad, but it was all muscle. He had to be a linebacker or something. The broad shoulders and ripped arms, one still on his upper arm. _Calm down. Relax._ He actually hadn’t been touched by anyone other than nurses since Marty had left him at the hospital that night two weeks ago. He discovered he was having a panic response to the touch. _Panic or arousal, boy?_ Where the hell had that thought come from? One hand was scratching the back of the other boy’s head, the other still hadn’t let go of his arm. “Let’s start with the kitchen and I can get you a glass of water, yah?”

“Sounds good.” He took several short breaths as he was dragged through the house.

The kitchen matched the rest of the house, massive and expensive. And at the moment there was another person occupying the space. A tall teen had folded himself onto a barstool pulled up the breakfast bar side of a center island. He was humming to himself as he frosted cookies, keeping an eye on the oven timer. His hair was a poof of kinky curls pulled back high on his head, and he was beginning to grow in a beard, but wasn’t quite there yet. The other teen was probably longer than he was by an inch or two and he could see that there was power in the limbs, muscled biceps poking out from a t-shirt that said ‘Homo-tastic’ in rainbow sparkles. His face lit up when he saw Hercules drag him into the kitchen, and the tall teen bounced off of the stool and came swiftly across the kitchen intending to give him a hug. He panicked. This guy was kind of hot, Hercules still had a hold of his arm, and there was too much going on to deal with it all right now. How he felt right now, he might just respond to the other teen’s hug with a punch in the face, and he really didn’t want to start out his term at this house by punching one of his host’s sons.

Thankfully, Hercules stepped in the other teen’s path and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Hey Gil! Our new friend here has some cracked ribs and might want a rain check on hugs at the moment.”

“Non! C'est horrible!” Gil grabbed one of his hands and lightly traced the scabs on his knuckles. “How did you get them? Are you feeling ok? Are you in pain? Where are you from?”

He was speechless. Sensory overload, and he was unable to respond. It wasn’t even entirely the feeling of the soft hand taking his and tracing patterns on the knuckles. But once again, Hercules came to the rescue. _My hero._ “Why don’t we just do the grand tour and let him settle in. Then at dinner we can interrogate him?”

“Bonne idée. Well, je m'appelle Lafayette.” The teen placed a hand on his chest and then waved the other at the other teen. “He is Hercules Mulligan.”

“He actually has a lot more names, but mostly we call him Lafayette or Gilbert. First name Gilbert, last name Lafayette.” Hercules said over his shoulder as he pulled cups out of one of the cabinets. And dear god, the shirt rode up to show a bit of trim waist. _Focus, Laurens!_

He had decided to keep his last name; it was his mother’s last name too. It was what was on her tombstone. It would be worth still being connected to that little bit of Henry if he could stay connected to his mother. The first name on the other hand…

The other two chatted and soon were dragging him around the first floor. Lafayette chattering about each room while Hercules laughed at the jokes the French teen made and interjected his own bits of information. There was an office for each of the adults on the first floor, also the kitchen, a formal dining room, living room and the master suite were on the first floor. On the second floor were two guest bedrooms and the three bedrooms that already belonged to the boys of the house.

Finally there was a game/wreck room that also seemed to do triple duty as a study area. One wall was devoted to a huge television, and about every game station you could imagine as well as every game ever invented it seemed. The opposite wall was a bookcase filled with books and board games; a cut out in the bookcase featured a chalkboard. Currently there was a diagram of some football plays and a sketch of a woman in a ball gown drawn on the board. The third wall was completely covered in pictures and trophies. Lafayette holding a trophy in a sparkly jumpsuit, Hercules holding up a football in his pads and jersey, a third boy holding a framed newspaper, and too many others all showing happy boys and the elder Washingtons.

The third boy was actually in the room; he realized when the sound of furious tapping on a computer reached his ears. Along the fourth wall was a giant desk, three chairs and three sets of desk items, but one massive surface. At the far end sat a short boy with messy brown hair. He could see the side of his face, pulled into the biggest frown he’d ever seen. _Prettiest too._ Excuse me, what? The boy had scraggly hair that looked like the second day after getting a five-o-clock shadow. It didn’t seem like the boy was trying to grow facial hair like Lafayette, just didn’t much care if it grew either way. He was muttering to himself as he typed.

“Umm…” He began, but Hercules and Lafayette waved him quiet.

“So what are you up to, Mon Ami?” Lafayette said loudly, too loudly for the size of the room, but it barely fazed the other boy.

“Some idiot is trying to argue with me on twitter that Drumft will make a good president because he’s a good businessman.” He shot over his shoulder without looking away from the computer screen or stopping typing. The three of them moved closer to his desk area and he could see that he was tweeting both at the other person and Trump at the same time.

“Are you actually sending all of that to Trump?” He asked. The other boy nodded and sent off another scathing tweet. He apparently didn’t notice that John's voice was noting like Hercules’ or Lafayette’s.

“And I'm ripping both of them a new one. That’s one good thing about lack of classes over Christmas break, more time to show people how stupid they are online.” He finally spun the swivel desk chair around as he sent off his final tweet. His face flushed when he realized that someone new was in the room. “Who are you?”

“Uhhh,” he honestly still hadn’t decided yet… He should get on that instead of letting himself get overwhelmed with the huge house and the pretty boys… Ryan? No. Paul? No. Arthur? No. Jeff? Ugh, that one sounded like a total dick…

“He is our new housemate, Alexander.” Lafayette supplied, a smile on his face that spoke volumes. Maybe they let Alexander’s mouth run and get him into unnecessary situations often?

“Why do you guys always let me make an ass out of myself?” Alex groaned, tugging a chunk of hair before pulling a hair tie from his wrist and pulling the long hair out of his face into a messy bun.

“Why do you always make it so easy?” Lafayette teased back.

“Anyway!” Alex decided to not so subtly change the subject. “I'm Alexander Hamilton, what’s your name?”

And here it was, the moment of truth. What was his name? He could pick any of the millions of names out there in the world. What would fit him though? Looked down at his bruised and scabby hands, the ratty clothes; his beat up shoes held a stark contrast to the hardwood floors covered with what had to be a rug that cost two months rent in his old area. Should he choose a name that matched this place? Would that help him fit in? Brian, Reginald, Hunter, Fredrick? What about a name that reminded him of where he started? Steve, Bobby, Frank, Joe? No.

He must have taken too long, because all three boys were looking at him in concern, one of them asked, “Are you ok, dude?”

He should choose a name that meant something to him. But who was a good male role model in his life? None of his past teachers had made an impact on him. He really had no male friends to speak of since coming out. Sure as hell not his father. His mother had been the only positive figure in his life, and her name had been Eleanor, which was not easily transformed into a boy’s name.

Then he remembered an early memory, something he thought he’d forgotten. Before his mother had died, the family had gone to visit his Grandfather, he couldn’t remember now if it was his father’s or mother’s father. The man owned a small ranch somewhere. He’d let nine-year-old him ride one of the horses, the entire time exaggerating about how wild the mustang was and how his little Jackie was one of the best cowgirls in the west. How she could do anything she set her mind to and ‘don’t let no damn boys ever tell you you can’t do it, Jack, don’t ever.’ He was the first person to shorten his name into a male form. It had felt right then, like the thing that he was missing. Of course, he really didn’t think much on that at the time, but now, eight years and so much heartbreak later, it meant everything. The old man had a stroke a few weeks later and fell from his horse, hit his head and had never made it to the hospital. It had been so close to his mother’s passing that he had not mourned the man, so lost in the grief of loosing his mother. But he had stayed with him to surface at this moment and he finally knew what his name should be. In honor of his Grandfather, the man who had shown him the path he needed to walk, even unintentionally.

“I’m fine.” He said, looking up at the three other boys surrounding him. They each held a look of concern, Lafayette’s head cocked to the side a bit, Hercules’ arms across his chest, Alex’s hand still outstretched to him although it had dropped a few inches in the moments it had taken him to make the biggest decision of his life since coming out. He grabbed that hand, shook it firmly twice and with not quite a smile but definitely less sadness he said, “Call me John Laurens.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonjour. Comment ça va?- Good morning. How are you?  
> Non! C'est horrible!”- No! That’s horrible!  
> Bonne idée. – Good idea.  
> je m'appelle- I call myself
> 
>  
> 
> I had to write ‘Trump’ way too many times in this chapter for my comfort…
> 
> So I tried to show how hopeful yet afraid of the future John is. I wanted the whale drawing to kinda be a metaphor. Did I do it ok? I feel like it was a bit in your face, but it was nice imagery and is starting to set up something I'm going to be doing to John in two or three arcs in the future so I kept it.
> 
> The next arc is going to be finishing high school and hopefully John gets into college? Plus there is going to be a lot of teenage boys being teenage boys. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who voted for Call Me John Laurens! It was great to see who liked it and wanted to see more. I'm already working on the second arc so look out for Laruens, Do Not Throw Away Your Shot. It will be longer than this first arc I think, picking up right where we left off. I will be posting the first chapter later this week.
> 
> I really have one big question that I would appreciate an answer to though: did the distraction over the cute boys (Laf, Herc, and Alex) seem genuine? I'm on the Ace spectrum and I have literally no frame of reference. I’ve never looked at a person and thought ‘Hmm… I need to sex that.’ The irony is not lost on me: an Ace trying to write romance… Help a girl out, please???
> 
> This update supported by CelticMuse34.  
> Talk to me on tumblr @immadoathing.


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